


Darkness

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, Frottage, M/M, explicit - Freeform, possible D/s tones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3418331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darkness allows Sherlock to see even more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Come At Once if Convenient comm on Live Journal. No beta, owing to 24 hour time frame. 
> 
> My prompt was "Got a long list of ex-lovers, they'll tell you I'm insane." No, I have no idea how this relates to that. 
> 
> I own nobody, nothing, and make no money from this.

A city is never silent, even late at night. From the pavement will rise the tired steps of a shift worker, or perhaps a car will go past, sounding louder and more mysterious in the dark. But of course, in the city, it’s never completely dark. Where the windows don’t have light-blocking drapes, sleepers will shroud their faces in satin sleep masks, or plush pillows, or, sometimes, the soft warmth of a lover’s neck. 

But in one London flat, on Baker Street, there are only filmy curtains, filtering the street lights to a crepuscular gloom. The window is open, ostensibly for air, and the sounds of a night-time street are savored and sifted. There is a satin mask, and a lover’s neck, but sleep is not their purpose. 

“The car that just went by. Tell me about it.” John whispers the instruction, curling his fingers around Sherlock’s throat. 

“Taxi.” Sherlock forces this word past the others lodged in his throat; begging is never rewarded, but information is. “The same one that always goes past at two o’clock. The engine is-” he pauses, searching through the buzz of pleasure/apprehension/want for the next word. A simple word, a childish-yes. “The engine is skipping on one cylinder.” 

“Very good. So clever, my love.” John sweeps his hand down, calloused fingers tracing the outline of Sherlock’s clavicle, dipping into the hollow of his throat. Sherlock sighs under the touch, tipping his head back in a silent plea for more, more, more. This, begging with his body, this John allows. Encourages, even, when the heat of his body intrudes into Sherlock’s space, following the path of his fingers not with lips or tongue, but with the soft push-pull of his breath. 

John raises his head when a faint susurrus rises from the street below, presses his palm against Sherlock’s breast bone. Warm, heavy, pressing him into the mattress. “What do you hear?” John’s voice is distant again, the weight of his hand coming from above rather than beside. He is sitting up,looking out the window, and Sherlock wants to tell him that it’s a waste of effort, the angle is wrong and he won’t be able to see, but that’s not what John wants to know. 

“A bicycle.” The press of John’s hand increases, hard and heavy against his chest, pulling him down, down, away from his brain, but that’s wrong, so wrong, because he has to answer the question. The sound was faint, and fast, and he’s heard it before, but not for himself, not first-hand, and he thinks of the color yellow and it comes to him, bright and sure. “A racing bike, someone training when the traffic is light.” 

And John rewards him, his hand lifting, pulling away until a single finger rests in the center of his chest. “You. Are. Amazing,” he says, and slowly traces a criss-cross path, around one nipple and across to circle the other, an endless tracery looping over Sherlock’s chest, endless, forever-

“Lemnescate. Eternity. Infinity.” Sherlock wants to frown, to dismiss the obvious sentimentality of this touch, but his traitorous body flushes, tingling heat racing beneath his skin, and he hears himself whine. 

“Maybe it’s just a figure eight.” 

“Don’t tease.” John shouldn’t tease, mustn’t make him feel so much only to take it away with his- oh. His voice had been husky and low, mocking his own need. Not Sherlock’s, no, never, John was never cruel. Harsh wasn’t the same thing. 

The infinite loops draw in, tighter circles around tightening flesh, and oh, please, touch, so close John, please, just-

A fragrance now, ghosting through the window, familiar, well loved, surrendered for the sake of other cravings, deeper needs.

“Sherlock.” John’s hand stills, lifts, hovers. “Tell me, love.” 

It is his first miscalculation; Sherlock inhales deeply to savor the smoke, and the rising of his chest brings them together, fingertip to nipple. Sherlock arches, seeking contact, but John snatches his hand away. 

“Ah, ah. Nope. That’s naughty, love, and cheating. Tell me, or we’re done.” 

“Cigarette. Embassy Regal. Premium brand, but stale. Hidden; trying to quit? Sneaking a smoke in the dead of night, but the smell will give them away.” 

With a pleased sigh, John brings both hands down, cupping rather than caressing sensitive flesh. Sherlock swallows hard, his nipples straining into the heat of John’s palms. The moan escapes him, low and dark.

“That’s it, love. Let me hear you.” John flattens his palms, barely brushing him, and rubs alternating circles. The mattress shifts beneath them, and John is leaning down, is going to press his lips, warm and chapped, to Sherlock’s skin. 

A breeze sighs through the window, damp and cool, and John pulls back, offers another question. “Will it rain, later, do you think?” 

Child’s play, even if Sherlock hadn’t been tracking weather patterns all week. No thought required, and he answers thoughtlessly. “Obviously. Anyone could smell it.” 

There is silence, and the touching stops. John’s hands vanish, and it is only his voice that connects them now. “Rude, Sherlock. I know it was obvious. It was meant to be. That was a gift, and you’ve turned it down. What should I do about that, do you think?” 

Sherlock’s hand, resting between their naked bodies, grabs for John’s hip. Smooth skin, a lightly haired thigh, muscle and skin and permanence. Please, permanence. 

John sighs, and takes Sherlock’s grasping hand in both of his. Gentle strokes, John’s thumbs easing the tension from his fingers. “I’m not leaving, Sherlock. Not from this bed, not from this room, not from this life.” John is standing, the edge of the mattress rising in his absence, keeping hold of Sherlock’s hand. Then the mattress dips again, on either side of him this time, and John’s weight settles on Sherlock’s thighs, pinning him securely into place. 

“John,” is all he can say. But John is all, and all is John, so it is enough. 

“Is this better, love? I can see that it is.” He trails the backs of his fingers down, ribcage to thigh, and chuckles darkly when Sherlock squirms. “So many things I could do to you from here. There will be a consequence, you understand, for turning down my gift.” His hands cradle Sherlock’s hips, thumbs stroking over the hollows and bones, and he hums consideringly. 

Sherlock knows what John’s face looks like in a myriad of situations. He has seen John sleeping (so lovely and soft), and he has seen John in a towering rage (chin tucked, lips pursed, and the sniff that means something lethal is about to happen). He has seen John in the throes of pleasure, and grieving, and confused. For all of that, he has no idea what expression he would see, were he to tear off the confounded mask. Are John’s eyes the bright blue of excitement, or the deep almost-black of arousal? Does his tongue flick out to wet his lips? Is he focused on Sherlock, or lost in speculation of what he wants to do. It’s maddening, this not knowing, and his hands twitch with the need to rip the mask from his face and see. But John captures his hands and pressed them firmly to the bed. Sherlock is already in trouble, and does not wish to be restrained. Not tonight. So he stills beneath John, listening, wondering, waiting. 

“Don’t think I don’t know what you were about to do. You were doing so well, love, we were so close. But you had to smart off, and there’s a consequence for that. So. Control yourself, and deduce. Tell me what I am doing.” John’s weight shifts, leaning back and signaling for Sherlock to part his thighs so John can settle himself between them. 

Consequence? Opportunity, rather. Sherlock knows he could take John apart with just his voice, knows how John loves to hear him explain the observations and deductions. This is not a punishment, but a challenge.

“Patella.” Sherlock names the part pressing his thighs open. John is sitting on his heels then, spread wide in a display Sherlock wishes he could appreciate. He can imagine, though. John’s strong thighs splayed wide in the twilit bedroom. The soft light from the street would be behind him, outlining his body in gold. John’s lovely cock, rising proud between his splayed legs, hard and flushed and glistening. If Sherlock had his way, if he could see, he would urge John to shift, guide him forward, up, up, toward the heat of Sherlock’s mouth...

“You’re not paying attention.” John calls him back, rough-voiced, and the press of his kneecaps shifts slightly, pressing harder into the bed. 

“You’ve tipped forward. Not using your hands to brace yourself.” The motion cues stop, and Sherlock listens intently. A slight noise, rhythmic, balanced. “You’re running your fingers up and down your thigh. You’re hard already, you have been for some time, but you’re trying to drag it out.” 

“Very good. Keep going, love.” John’s voice is rougher, and the words hitch slightly, but the noise continues, uneven now, from one side to the other. 

“You’re pinching. Your left side there, now the right. It’s not hard enough to leave bruises, but you’re remembering something.” Something about Sherlock? Yes, probably. John didn’t like to think about his previous conquests when they were together. Fair enough; Sherlock didn’t like thinking of his previous partners at all. “You’re thinking of me. Biting your thighs. Sucking on them. Marking you.” 

“Fantastic. More.” John’s body tilts to the side, over Sherlock’s knee, his other leg extending for balance. The side-table drawer shudders, rattles, and slides open. Then John is settling again, tucked close in to Sherlock’s body. 

“The drawer. It sticks; you jiggled to get it open. No rummaging around, but that’s not really significant because you keep it organized and we don’t have so very many things. Lube, probably.” No evidence of anything else, but there wouldn’t be much.

In answer, there is a popping sound; John is opening the lube. Sherlock listens, waits, but there is nothing to hear. Ah, but he’d been thinking about Sherlock, and what he liked Sherlock to do. Balance of probability, then.

“You’re holding yourself in one hand, and holding the lube bottle in the other. Probably your left. It’s dripping, dripping onto your head and slowly sliding down the length of you. You must have a pretty good slick going, now. Pooling around your fist, slipping between your fingers. No scent, so it’s the most viscous one. You’re in a hurry.” It made sense; they’d been a long time getting to this point. “You’re remembering how I stroked you during dinner. You wanted to come, John, didn’t you?” 

“I wanted to eat my dinner, you menace.” 

Sherlock dares to raise his own hand, collecting the excess lube from John’s fingers and carrying it to his own erection. 

“Sherlock.” John’s mouth is a temple, Sherlock’s name a holy prayer. John shifts, gets his knees under Sherlock’s thighs, and brings their cocks together in his slippery hand. 

“John. John, please, I want to see. Let me look.” 

“Yes, Sherlock. Look. See what you do to me.” 

Sherlock tears off the blindfold, and joins their hands. The sight is gorgeous and filthy, his long thin cock and John’s shorter and thicker one, sliding against each other, through intertwined tan and pale hands. The lube squelches in their palms, and John squeezes tighter. A spark ignites in Sherlock’s belly, roaring through his body, a fire kindled from John’s blue-black gaze, his parted lips, the flush that rises over his chest and face. He cries out, desperate for completion and never wanting this communion to end, and his free hand clenches hard in the sheets. 

John is gasping now, words of praise that Sherlock hears, that he craves, but can’t understand and won’t remember. The warmth of them, though, will stay with him, dreamtime and daylight, a talisman against a world that thinks him dangerous, damaged. Mad. 

Sherlock arches, and gasps, and his release washes over him, inevitable as the tide. John eases him through it, waits until the long line of Sherlock’s body is limp, relaxed, sated. Then he takes himself in hand, trembling under Sherlock’s heavy gaze, and strokes himself savagely to completion. 

And now it is Sherlock’s turn, catching John in his arms and pulling him down to the bed, running his fingers through the mussed hair, holding him lightly until his breathing slows and then clutching him tightly. 

They lie in silence for a time. Then John stirs, reaches to push some errant hair from his forehead, and grimaces. “What’s this in my hair?” 

Sherlock stretches, settles, and says “You know my methods. Apply them.”


End file.
